


freud's for suckers

by deadlybride



Series: kink bingo fills [13]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Curses, M/M, New Relationship, Oral Fixation, Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-02
Updated: 2018-10-02
Packaged: 2019-07-23 18:09:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16164152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadlybride/pseuds/deadlybride
Summary: In between jobs, Sam and Dean are exploring their new dynamic when Sam gets afflicted with a fairly ridiculous problem.





	freud's for suckers

**Author's Note:**

> written for the 2018 SPNKinkBingo, filling the 'Oral Fixation' square.

Sam keeps picking at his cast, even though the last time Dean caught him at it he smacked Sam right over the back of his head. It's already in the itchy stage, and Dean gets it, but Sam knows better. "Hey," he says, and kicks Sam's ankle for good measure. "Stop it."

He gets a _look_ , like it's him who's acting like a kid, but Sam puts the butter knife down and awkwardly folds his arms over his chest instead. "You find a case, yet?" Sam says, pretending like nothing happened.

Dean gives Sam a look right back, though he's sure he can't attain the heights of bitchface he's been graced with for the past—what, fifteen years? Sammy was a quick learner. "Working on it, Scratchy," he says, and that's—mostly true. Newspaper's all spread out on his side of the booth, and he's been reading. Sort of. "Genius takes time."

Sam raises his eyebrows. Luckily Dean's saved from the comeback by the waitress arriving again, plump and cheery. Cute dress covered in little flowers with a v-neck that's been very entertaining. They get coffee refills, and Dean gets a wink and the check, neatly totted up with a heart and a smiley face by the total. He smiles after her, bouncing away, but even if she was angling for a _tip_ with her tip—

Sam's boot nudges against his, and Dean turns back to the newspaper. "Not looking like much around here," he says, and he should maybe feel guilty about not searching harder. He's just got… other things on his mind, right now, is all.

Creamer and a Sweet 'n' Low in his coffee and then Sam stirs slow, the spoon chiming along the ceramic. He glances at Dean, and then away out the window to the sunny mid-morning, and what had been an easy breakfast slips, somehow. These strangenesses. Dean takes a sip of his own coffee—black, because he's not froofy and ridiculous like _some_ people—and there's a low-grade flutter of panic in his belly. What if it never stops being strange. What if it's ruined. What if.

Clink of ceramic on the table. When he looks up, Sam's licking his bottom lip, and he's not quick enough to hide where his eyes were. His cheeks are getting sort of pink. The waitress walks by again and Dean glances after her—it's a good butt, sue him—and when he glances back Sam's pressing his shoulders back against the high vinyl cushion of the booth, pretending to be casual. He's not very good at it.

"Maybe we could, uh," Sam says. His chin ducks, and he drags his knuckles along his jaw where he could really use a shave. His hair falls down in front of his eyes.

A bloom of _oh_ makes Dean suck in a quick breath. "Yeah," Dean says. He drags the check over through the coffee-circles and sticky syrup and stands up, leaving the paper there for the waitress to figure out. A couple bills on the table and Sam levers himself out of the booth, abruptly in Dean's space with his breath on the back of Dean's neck, and Dean tries not to fall over right there in the middle of this very ordinary friendly diner. He doesn't think he called Sam _brother_ the whole time they were here. God. What is the matter with him.

"Yeah," he says, barely out-loud, but Sam's fingers slip ticklish over the inside of his wrist and then away, and all he can think about then is the car, and getting to it, and not driving off the road before they get back to the dingy sprawl of the motel, and passing the day-maid who bobs mutely at them from behind her cart with a big white grin, and folding into the carefully dark interior of the room, and then closing the door and getting backed up against it with Sam's good hand soft on his jaw and the cast-heavy wrist laying against his chest, and. And. Everything goes out of Dean's head. Sam's knee bumps his and Dean doesn't want to look up. There's Sam's dumb flowery shirt and the t-shirt underneath it, his big brown jacket soft under Dean's fingers, his breath coffee-stained but sweet, too. His pink mouth, and the pink tongue that slips against it. He doesn't say anything but his thumb drags all the way along Dean's jaw to the very tip of his chin, and pushes up, and Dean lets the weight of his skull sit heavy, his neck loose, and when finally he has to meet Sam's eyes Sam frowns at him, for some reason, for a long awful second, but then—he dips down, his nose brushes Dean's, his hair tickling Dean's forehead. They breathe each other for a moment that makes Dean's pulse kick up like a ghost's in the room before their lips meet, and the weird tense relief makes Dean's fists go tight, even as something in the back of his brain softens, and lets go. Like settling into the Impala after a long day. Like a starry night, with nothing in it that has to be burned. Their lips move together, careful and a little wet. Sam's nose brushes familiarly against his cheek and Dean tips his head back against the door, curls his hands into Sam's jacket and tugs him closer, pulls him in, so that his stupid long heat covers Dean up head to toe. Sam's bad arm brackets Dean's head, and when he pulls back to breathe Dean lets his eyes slit open enough to see—yeah. Patchy blush all over, his expression still set in that goofy grateful surprise. Dean's got no room to talk—he's just as freaked, just as knocked over sideways by this whole thing—but still. Good to know he's not the only one.

They never—talked about it, is the thing. Never did anything. After—after Dad, after the poison in Dean's chest finally cracked open and he admitted how bad it was, they went and got a cast put on Sam's arm and there was drinking, and then more drinking, and then it was—a blur, sort of.

The thing is: that's a lie. Some parts of the night are foggy. Some parts Dean really doesn't remember. The parts he does remember, though, they sit so hot and siren-loud and clear in his chest that he can hardly believe it. He's had a pretty crazy run, so far, but he's never felt so drenched in life. Everywhere they touched, an electrocution. He could've scrambled away after, could've just shot himself in the head and thrown the sacrifice that kept him here out the window, only Sam clutched him close and pinned him down and told him, _I thought—I thought you'd never—_ and, well. He promised not to leave Sammy alone. He's not going to break that oath, at least. It's the only one that matters.

They wake up again in the late afternoon, tangled up in bed, Sam's cast a really terrible pillow. Dean shoves him off and takes a shower, and then when he gets out Sam's yawning and hungry, and so then it's back to the diner. Dean gets the cheeseburger special, and Sam gets bone-white chicken with greyish broccoli—yum—and then there's still a bunch of hours left in the day and Dean's not in a hurry to pick up and leave town, and so they might as well get some chores done. The Impala could use an oil change, and a wash; they need salt and bullets and Dean's down to his last pair of jeans, and Sam's better knife snapped in a tree-trunk when they hunted the dryad last week, so. They split up. It's fine. Dean watches Sam amble off down the road toward the strip mall they passed a couple blocks down, and he chews on his lip watching the late-day light glint off Sam's hair, and then he realizes what kind of an absolute chode he's being. Oil change. That's the thing to focus on.

Sam comes back before Dean's done, and he sits on the sidewalk outside the room while Dean replaces spark plugs, tightens up the carb, does all the TLC the car still needs. Newly rebuilt and he's still trying to get to know her. Sam doesn't make fun of him for it, for once. He's reading another newspaper, sucking on a pen while he looks for a case or learns about the stock market or whatever the hell, and they don't talk, and that's okay. Sun's going down. It's a nice night.

When Dean lets the hood slam closed, he stretches in a long pull from the base of his spine all the way to his greasy fingers, and lets it go in a sigh. Okay. Car's good, and they've got supplies. "Wanna go pick up some cash?" Dean says, turning around. Sam blinks up at him, the pen halfway in his mouth. "Ew. You don't know where that thing has been."

"What?" Sam says, around the pen, and Dean rolls his eyes and says, "Come on, Linus," and Sam rolls his eyes right back but, look, Dean's still his brother, no matter what happens between them that doesn't change, and so he loads ol' bitchface into the car and takes them ten minutes down the road to that bar with the half-burnt out sign so the neon says TH DEPO, and oh hey, look at that, a bunch of guys playing darts for Dean to annihilate. Under duress Dean can admit that Sam's better, but he's got a handicap right now. Dean grins and Sam sighs. It'll feel good to show off.

Bar pretzels, two beers. Sam keeps playing the rim of his bottle over his lips, which. Dean has to physically turn around, watch the baseball on the TV on the other side of the bar. Another beer, and then he sends Sam off to totally fail, which he does beautifully, making the guys laugh. At their table Dean keeps a grin on, but it seems like the dudes are pretty good-natured. Good. Sam holds up his cast, grimaces, and then catches Dean's eye with one dimple sunk into his cheek, and Dean has to pack everything deep into his gut and comes over and goes, _my buddy here's terrible at this, come on—you guys need me to show you how it's done?_ , his arm around Sam's too-high shoulders and tugging Sam down into his side, swaying like two tall trees in a too-strong wind. Grins from the guys, and a bet. Another bet. Easy, it's all so easy.

Fifty bucks richer—not much, but hey, gas and a couple of cheap breakfasts tomorrow. Not bad. Dean turns around to Sam's lips wrapped around another beer bottle, and the cheery victory in his chest plummets south to something a lot—well, a lot skankier, and then it's back to the motel and him and Sam making out for what feels like hours, years, Sam pinning him down against one of the beds with his legs dangling off the side and Sam heavy over his chest, their mouths shifting wet and slow and endless. Dean hasn't made out this much since high school. Didn't think it was something he'd have missed, but Sam—he pulls back from Dean's mouth at one point and licks his lips, his hair a fluffed-out halo around his head, and he grins so unexpectedly that Dean's chest pangs. Dean tugs him back down by the ears, kisses him again, and again, sucking kisses to his bottom lip, and Sam slides his thigh up over Dean's and hums. He sounds happy. Dean can hardly stand it.

Night and weird restless shifting dreams, dark woods and a coffin and banging frantically against the inside of a lid that won't shift, but then—it does. Morning. He wakes up bare-assed to the dawn creeping through the slit blinds, his face buried into the bed, and he feels weird and cold and kind of upset, except. "What," he mumbles, into the mattress, and has to slurp in air and drags his hand over his face, but his other hand is—

He cranes his neck the other way around, and Sam's curled up on the other side of the mattress in a t-shirt and boxers and a truly fucked up bedhead, and more important than all that he's got two of Dean's fingers in his mouth, his tongue sliding fat against the part between them and his teeth soft against the flesh. Dean pops a boner so fast he's surprised he doesn't have an aneurysm or something. Sam's got his eyes closed, his eyelashes a soft shadow in the greyish thin light, his cast tucked up against his own chest, and Dean curls his hips in against the bed, grinding mindlessly. God. Who knew little brother was such a freak—and just the thought, his stomach twinges strangely, the dream mostly gone but the strangeness still there. It doesn't make this any less hot, any less crazy-making, and Sam suckles softly against knuckles and Dean has to break the silence, he says, "Sammy," his breath puffing hot and tremulous, and Sam's eyes slide slowly open, his cheeks flushed and his lids heavy, and Dean might just come from the look on his face except that Sam's eyebrows swoop low after a second and he garbles some kind of nonsense around Dean's fingers, and coughs, and drags back with a painful scrape of teeth and says, "What the _fuck_."

"Ow!" Dean says, yanking his hand back. Sam scrubs at his mouth, pretty unflatteringly if Dean says so himself, because it's not like they haven't—you know—and Dean shakes his hand even though it doesn't hurt all that much, but damn, it's the principle. "What the fuck yourself, weirdo, you're not the one who woke up to finger-fellatio."

Sam wipes his wet mouth, pulls back and looks at his fingers. "I didn't," he starts, and then pushes up, dragging himself up to sit on his hip on the bed. "I, it wasn't on purpose, I must've been—dreaming, or something."

He's still frowning, hard enough that it screws his face up, and Dean feels his own face flush hot. His stupid dick is still fat and hopeful against the bed and he carefully turns the other way as he rolls upright. "Sorry to disappoint," he says, and he knows it's snippy and stupid, but. It's been good, so far. Hard to get reminded that Sam's trapped in this, as much as he is. _Wasn't on purpose_. Yeah. Sounds about right.

"Hey," Sam says, behind him, but Dean can't right now, he just—and he says, "I'm gonna take a shower, why don't you try and find a case or something on your laptop, huh?" and he's across the room and with the bathroom door closed behind him and his heart clanging weirdly inside his chest, a rhythm he's too familiar with. He kinda has to pee, now that he's upright, but he's still too hard for it to be comfortable. Damn Sam. He turns on the shower, since that's what he said he was gonna do, and he looks at himself for the minute it takes to get warm and finds himself a little puffy-faced, his hair all flat on one side, his eyes red. Shine of dried drool on his chin that he scrubs at. Gross. No wonder Sam didn't want—

The door slams open, catches his side with the bathroom so little. Sam looms in the doorway, thunder-faced. "Don't you _dare_ ," he says, nonsensically, and Dean says, clutching his banged-up side, "I know I taught you what knocking is—" but Sam grabs him by the hips and backs him against the sink and kisses him, hard enough to bend him back, his tongue shoving in like he owns the place. Ugh—god, morning-mouth, tastes like ass, but Dean grabs onto Sam's arms for balance and kisses right back, even with their teeth clacking painfully and the cold porcelain practically searing his bare ass. Ow. Sam's dick pushes fat against his through the thin warm cotton of his boxers, and Dean wriggles closer, opens up more. It'd be better if they'd both had a round of mouthwash, but not _that_ much better. Sam sucks Dean's bottom lip, sets his teeth lightly into it, and Dean makes a dumb small noise deep in his chest. _Sammy_.

Sam pulls back, finally, his thumb coming up to sweep over the wet part of Dean's mouth. "You're an idiot," he says, quiet, and Dean finally opens his eyes to find Sam frowning at him again, but maybe. It's okay, maybe. His chest hurts, for no good reason. Sometimes it's just—hard to remember. They're in this together.

The shower's still running and it's starting to put out some steam, and right now that sounds way better than standing here on the cold-ass tile with his cold-ass ass, and he's thinking, maybe Sam wouldn't mind continuing this conversation in a warmer environment, when Sam's eyes drop to his mouth and he groans, and takes a step back.

"What?" Dean says. His voice comes out sounding weird. If this is another pause button he's gonna just have to take matters into his own hands.

"I've got, um," Sam says. He swipes his tongue over his lips, covers his mouth with one hand. "I want to just—"

Dean raises his eyebrows. Sam's staring at him, turning red, and this maybe is all new to them both but there's no reason for Sam to be that embarrassed. Hell, Dean's the one with the boner waving around in the open air. "What do you want?" Dean says. Softer than he meant. Sam's turning him into a sop.

Sam presses his fingers against his lips, hard enough that his nails go white, and shakes his head. He's—really pink, now, patchy all over. Dean reaches out, brushes his belly through his shirt, and Sam breathes out sharp through his nose. "That's the thing," he mumbles, against his fingers. "I don't want to—I've got to use the toilet, man, I'm not really turned on, but I want—"

Dean drops his eyes and, oh. Yeah, Sam's not really hard. He pulls back, frowning, and Sam groans, frustrated, and while Dean watches he—pops his thumb into his mouth and sucks, hard.

Dean breathes. "What," he says, after a few seconds.

Sam squeezes his eyes shut and slurps back off his thumb, his mouth wet and working. "Oh my god," he says, his knuckle pressing between his eyebrows, "can you—shit, can you just, can you get out for a second, I've got to—" and he waves his cast clumsily at Dean, waving him out of the bathroom, and the door slams into the frame with Dean on the other side of it, somehow. The shower's still running, pointlessly. Dean opens his mouth, and closes it again, and then he hears Sam groan behind the door and he scoots across the room as quick as he can. No one needs to hear that. Also, what?

" _What?_ " Dean says, when the bathroom door opens again. Shower's off, toilet's flushed, and Sam's hair is damp and pushed back from his face. He's got his teeth dug into his lip and he shakes his head. "No, okay, hang on—what's going on with you? None of this business," he says, shaking his head ridiculously.

He gets a _look_ , again. Too damn bad. Sam's tongue wets his lip and he hisses in a breath. "I can't stop, um." Sam's good hand goes up to his mouth again and his fingers tap at his lips, one two three, before he grabs them with his other hand and makes a pained face.

"What?" Dean says, hands on his hips. He's glad he's dressed, now. At least he's not the dumbest-looking person in the room. "You can't stop sucking?"

He means it like a joke. Sam's face collapsing in gratitude was not the desired result. "It's so weird, man," Sam says, and apparently doesn't care that Dean's mouth has fallen open. He drags his teeth over his lip again, and it's starting to look red, kind of chapped. "Ever since yesterday, I just—want. Something, in my mouth. Like my lips get… itchy, or whatever. I can't figure it out."

Dean's silent and Sam finally seems to notice. Bites both lips between his teeth, makes his mouth a flat bloodless line. "Okay, hang on," Dean says, at last, but—what the hell. It is way too early for this conversation. He rubs his hand over his own mouth and Sam's eyes go right to it, his brow knotting, and—oh, come on. Dean sits on the bed. "Is that why you keep…"

"Kissing you's a bonus," Sam says, scratchy, and. Okay. Whatever.

Dean still has to pee. He's still gross, from when Sam rubbed off all over his hip last night, his tongue in Dean's mouth the whole time, kissing him light-headed, kissing him until Dean's lips were so numb they buzzed. Not the worst weird affliction in the world, only… Sam's got his middle finger in his mouth, and doesn't seem to notice that he's doing it. Dean stares until Sam flushes and yanks his finger out with a _pop_. "Okay," Dean says, and has no idea what should come after. Well. First things first. "I'm gonna shower. You just, uh. Try to keep things PG for a few minutes, and I'll—we'll figure this out, okay? There's gotta be a reason you're going all Prince John."

Sam nods, looking down at the carpet. Dean crosses the room and snags a finger into the waistband of his boxers, and when Sam looks up Dean goes up on his toes a little and presses their lips together, soft. The groan Sam can't stop hits him right in the belly. He pulls back before Sam can lick his tonsils out, but then gives Sam another little kiss, wet and smoochy. "Tide you over, huh?" Dean says, and Sam blinks at him all bewildered, but Dean shuts himself into the bathroom right away. Sam can suck a pen or an empty bottle or his thumb, whatever. Dean presses down against his dick, chubbing up again already. Jesus. If he's going to help with this one he's got to clean the pipes. Sam's mouth's already looking wet and used. This is going to be—really, really bad for Dean's composure.

When Dean's clean and feeling a little calmer, he comes out of the bathroom already dressed to find Sam wearing jeans and his grey hoodie and sucking absently on a pencil while he reads on his laptop. His eyes flick up when Dean comes out, and drag straight down Dean's body, and Dean's ears go hot. Not all the way to calm, then. "I've been reading up on the lore," Sam says, though. It's a little garbled around the pencil.

"Thumbsuckers: Witching Edition?" Dean says. He raises his hands against the glare. "Sorry, sorry. Come on, let's hear it."

Trouble is: there's not actually much lore. Dean watches Sam slowly gnaw the pencil into a nasty woodpulp mess, and it turns out that a witch could've done it, sure. When's the last time they ran into a witch, though? The dryad's out, and they haven't met any ghosts.

"Cursed object?" Dean says, just throwing darts, and Sam frowns with that _don't be stupid_ face and then his whole expression changes, and he closes his eyes. Dean sighs. "Pawn shop."

"Pawn shop," says Sam, mournfully.

Sam folds himself into his big coat and he's chewing his nails in the passenger seat, the gross pencil left behind for the sake of the public. The pawn shop's not open at this hour, but it's not like that's ever stopped them before—they park behind and Dean disables the alarm in two minutes flat, a personal best that Sam very much doesn't appreciate as he jimmies the lock and then they're inside, flashlights out, looking around. It's a mess, a minefield.

"I think a needle in a haystack would be easier," Dean says, looking around at the piles and piles of knives and clothes and old radios, fenced jewelry and school band instruments, little depressing slices taken out of lives that haven't really lived up to their promise. "What are we even looking for?"

Sam takes his knuckle out of his mouth. "I, uh," he says, looking dismayed all around. His hand's shiny with spit.

There's a dish of Werther's Originals on the counter next to the register, because apparently this place is run by someone's grandma. Dean tosses one to Sam. "Suck on that," he says, and Sam grimaces at him but dutifully pops it in, and then Dean resigns himself to two hours of combing through merchandise Sam might've touched. At least they've still got those latex gloves from the last morgue expedition—if they both get cursed they won't get anything done.

By the time they have to run out ahead of the owner rattling in, though—there's nothing. No EMF, no spell residue clinging to anything that they've seen. "Could just burn the place down," Dean says, locking the back door behind them against the clear morning, and Sam gives him a bitchy rundown of why that won't work, because because because. Of course. He stops at a convenience store a few blocks from the motel and leaves Sam to stew and suck his thumb inside, and buys the entire display of sugar-free spearmint Trident. The kid behind the counter frowns at him. "Fresh breath is very important," Dean says, and when he gets back into the car he slaps the gum against Sam's chest and says, "Don't say I never did anything for you," and when they're back to the motel he brews up the tiny pot of coffee while Sam chews, jaw working furiously.

"Could be worse," Dean says, fiddling with the paper rim on the cup. "You could be cursed to sniff butts or something."

There's a deadly silence from behind him. He grins down at the coffee pot. "Thank you for the perspective," Sam says, irritable, and they don't talk for a while, after that.

Dean watches some of the daytime shows. Kelly looks exactly the same. Plastic surgery, he wonders, or maybe some kind of youth-extending spell? Sam chews gum and reads on his computer, knee jogging all restless, and Dean watches him instead of the TV for a while and then dozes, the early morning catching up to him. Doesn't dream, really, just drifts. A golden haze of sunlight. A warmth, even though his nose and ears are cold. Maybe the heater in the room isn't working. That's okay.

He wakes up to Sam still reading. The TV's on mute. "You moved?" Dean says, yawning, and then, "What time is it?"

Golden light coming in through the window. Sam's bundled up in his coat still. Yeah, the heater's out. Dean pushes up on his elbows, kicks off his boots. Scrunches his toes inside his socks. Sam hasn't answered and Dean blinks at him, squinting, and then sighs. "What happened to the gum, dude?"

"Jaw hurts," Sam says, around his fingers, and Dean'd make more fun of him but he just sounds so miserable.

"Come here," Dean says, and Sam gives him a sidelong look, but he pushes back from the table and comes around to stand by the bed, his cast held low over his belly and his wet fingers dangling against his thigh. Pruny skin. Poor dork. His mouth's so red, worked-looking, and Dean's too lazy-sleepy to do much more than curl his fingers into the bottom of Sam's shirt and tug. Sam frowns at him, but he bends over, down and down until all Dean has to do is tilt up his chin and they're kissing, just like that. Sam sighs, but he moves his lips against Dean's. They feel puffed, sort of. Warm. Dean licks into him and he tastes like pure mint, sweet as candy.

"How many pieces did you chew?" he murmurs, between them, and Sam huffs and says, "Whole pack," and Dean shakes his head and tugs Sam again so he sits on the bed, and lifts up on his elbow and kisses Sam more. Because he can. Because Sam needs it. Either way, it's nice.

Sam sets his teeth in Dean's lower lip, pulls and sucks. The pit of Dean's belly gongs lowly and he curls his fingers into Sam's shirt, pulls him closer. "Okay?" he manages, because—because if Sam's just doing this because he has to—but Sam nods, his nose brushing Dean's cheek, and rearranges himself on the bed so he's spread out along Dean's side, perched over him on one elbow with his hand sliding up Dean's shirt, the plaster cast dragging scratching up Dean's belly. His thigh lays against Dean's, and then slips between Dean's legs, and Dean sets his hands in Sam's hair and bites his lips and licks them and then pulls back, his head smushing back against the pillow, so he can look. Sam's mouth red, his cheeks red, his eyes nearly black. Dean licks his own lips, tastes mint. "Okay?" he says, again, stupidly.

Sam's so warm, on top of him, all against him. He sets his hand flat in the middle of Dean's chest, presses down. "Can I?" Sam says, and Dean doesn't know what he's asking, but yes, of course, the answer is always yes, and—he doesn't say it, but Sam smiles anyway, dimples carving immediately into his cheeks. He leans in and kisses Dean's lips, just a taste of tongue, and then his throat, and then he ducks his head and sucks Dean's amulet into his mouth, peeking up at Dean while he does it, and—oh, god, that sends a surge straight to Dean's dick, do not pass go, two hundred dollars thoroughly forgotten. His lips quirk, around the leather cord—oh, the little shit—but he's ducking down and kissing Dean's stomach, and then the low part of his belly that's bared from his rucked-up shirt, and then he kisses the buckle of Dean's belt, and—oh. Oh.

"Sam," Dean says, breathy, but Sam's already tugging at the leather, sucking at a random patch of skin next to Dean's navel while he does it, and Dean spreads his legs, touches Sam's hair and his shoulders through that thick coat and fists into the blanket, because they haven't, they haven't done this, not yet. Jerked each other off, rubbed all over each other, and one night Sam held Dean's thighs together and thrust between them until Dean's skin tingled raw, but—and Dean hasn't pushed and neither has Sam, everything all so new, but. Sam tugs his jeans down over his hips and Dean helps, lifts up, and there's his boner pushing up his boxers, the hickey Sam left on his belly tingly and wet in the cold air, and Sam looks up at him again and chews at his bottom lip, his cheeks patchy. "Don't have to," Dean says, even though his dick's practically sitting up and begging for it.

"I know I don't," Sam says, firm. He shifts his shoulders, and scoots further down the bed so he's lying right between Dean's spread legs, and then he peels Dean's waistband down below the fat eager spring of his dick and tucks it below Dean's balls and then he licks his lips and seals them right around the head of Dean's dick, and sucks.

Sam groans—Dean makes a weird strangled noise in his throat and clenches his hands so hard in the comforter that they hurt. Oh. Sam's tongue laps flat against the head, wet, and then he pulls off with a pop and licks Dean from base to tip, wet and maddening. Dean's leaky, he always is when he wants someone this much, and Sam wraps a hand around the base and licks against the slit, getting the drops against his tongue. Dean's heels drag against the slick bed, but Sam pushes his hip down. "Let me," he says, which is easy for him to say, but he shifts so he's got one elbow on the bed, his weight draped over Dean's thigh, and he licks his lips to shining and lets out a strand of clear spit that drips over Dean's dick and then sinks down on it, a push of hot slick pressure with his tongue clinging hard to the underside, and Dean shudders and clutches his hands against Sam's shoulders and doesn't have much choice but to take it, his toes curling, all his concentration stuck in one spot.

Sam slurps back up, tongue working at the base of the head and sending sparks through Dean's balls and belly—dips back down again, suckling as he goes. God, god—Dean can't tell if he's done this before or if he's just going on what he likes, and either option just sets off fireworks inside his head. It feels, oh. Dean's had some world-class blowjobs before but this is something else. Sam's hair tickles against his belly and Dean pushes it back, light as light because he knows from experience you don't want anyone cramming your head down, but he needs to see, needs to—and there's Sam's eyes closed in concentration, the tip of his nose pink, the wet of his mouth as he pulls up with Dean's cock pressing his lips open, gleaming with Sam's own spit, ah, god—

Sam pulls off, a strand of spit or precome connecting them for a second, Dean doesn't know, and he gasps for a few seconds before he swoops down and smears his tongue flat over Dean's balls. Dean's thighs clench up so fast it hurts and he wraps a leg over Sam's, arching his hips as much as he can under Sam's weight. He's so full and sensitive it nearly hurts, but Sam's got his mouth latched soft over one nut and suckles, groaning, and Dean's hands clench in Sam's hair, he can't help it. Sam groans again and Dean forces himself to let go, ekes out, "Sorry, sorry," and Sam lets go with a wet noise and says, "No," and pushes up on an elbow to breathe open at Dean, and he says, "Put them back, I don't mind—come on—" and he goes back down on Dean's shaft, down to the base so that Dean's cockhead slicks along his palate and threatens the pit of his throat, and Dean has to, he has to then, he gets his hands in Sam's hair and pulls, the thick dark weight of it pushing through his knuckles and Sam moans and bobs against him and Dean's balls are just, god, _throbbing_ , and Sam runs a thumb wet with his own spit over Dean's sack and sucks and sucks and keeps sucking and Dean really pulls on Sam's hair then, his stomach and thighs and asshole all tightening and his toes curling and he whispers _Sammy, I'm—I'm gonna—_ and Sam lays his cast heavy over Dean's stomach and presses his tongue hard against the base of the head and Dean spurts straight into Sam's throat, his hips twitching up, Sam's wet heat all around him, his eyes squeezed shut so tight that light bursts behind them.

"Gah," Sam says, somewhere below, and cold air cruelly hits Dean's dick, but he can't function just yet. His ears are ringing. That might not be normal. Hot puffs of breath and then a wet soft tongue laps at him, velvety-rough where he's still twitching. He combs his fingers through Sam's hair, nerveless, and gets a smooch to his base, to his balls, to the thin skin of his hip. To the spot below his bellybutton, and then teeth sink in, just barely hard enough to hurt. He pulls Sam's hair, sharp, and gets a hum and a lick for his trouble.

"You're like a freakin' limpet," Dean manages, and when he opens his eyes Sam's chin is resting on his belly, and Sam's watching him.

"You complaining?" Sam says.

His mouth's really red, now, puffy. His eyes sit dark in his face, his hand braced possessive and heavy on Dean's side. "Nah," Dean says, light. His chest feels hot, compressed. "Just thinking. Maybe this little curse could work out in my favor. You think?"

Sam's lips twitch. He kneels up, between Dean's legs, and strips off that dumb coat. Underneath it he's got on one of those polo shirts Dean hasn't managed to burn, and there's sweat damp under his arms, at his throat. Big, big bulge in his jeans. When he settles back down over Dean his dick presses huge against where Dean's starting to go soft, the denim coarse against Dean's skin, and Sam trails his fingers over Dean's own mouth. Finds the toothmarks where Dean was trying to hold back the noises he couldn't help make and rubs them, easy. "I think," says Sam, trailing his fingers down to the amulet again, tugging it lightly. He licks his lips. Dean's dick twitches, oh, too soon. "I think maybe it could."

Dean drags breath in through his teeth. "Maybe a little, uh, quid pro quo's in order, though," he says, and watches Sam's mouth part, his tongue curling around the point of one tooth. Yikes. Okay.

They'll get to working on the curse, or the spell, or whatever it is, Dean thinks. Later. Sam slides his hand down Dean's side and grabs his hip, pulling him in tight. His belly leaps. Maybe a lot later. Maybe tomorrow. Tomorrow's good. Sam smiles at him and dips down for a kiss. His mouth tastes like—ah, not like spearmint anymore. Tomorrow will be fine. All sorts of good things still need to happen today.

**Author's Note:**

> [posted here on my tumblr if you'd like to reblog](http://zmediaoutlet.tumblr.com/post/178658426684/freuds-for-suckers)


End file.
